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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264133">Blame and Reckoning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shardof1ce/pseuds/Shardof1ce'>Shardof1ce</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:07:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shardof1ce/pseuds/Shardof1ce</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Expansion pack for the book series.</p><p>The plot will hang around the relationship of Geralt and Yennefer, which I loved too much to leave behind.</p><p>(Fair warning that not all chapters will feature them, but a strong majority will. As stated, they’ll be the center of the plot at all points)</p><p>My guiding principle while writing is giving the books their own 'Blood and Wine' treatment.<br/>______________</p><p>This fan-fic is written in complete ignorance of the game timeline, though I will absolutely and undoubtedly pull some content and motifs from the games as I see fit, like the shameless thief I am.</p><p>I beg you to read the books if you haven't yet.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>PLEASE READ</p><p>If you HAVE read the books:</p><p>For maximal enjoyment for YOU, I recommend you read the last chapter of The Lady of the Lake if you have it on hand PRIOR to starting this fanfic. </p><p>If you can't, no worries. It's not necessary at all. But it does, in my opinion, make it better.<br/>_______________</p><p>Sapkowski's writing style is antithetical to my own natural one, so please be generous while judging. I'm trying and will surely get better as I go along</p><p>Finally, please let me know of any mistakes - grammatical, lore, or otherwise. Thanks :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Elaine von Corbenic strode along the cloister that circumscribed <em>du Royce </em>Hall, with purpose and yet without haste. She didn’t do anything without purpose, but yet, having just last night closed the final chapter in the memoire <em>Whencefrom Was I </em>by prolific essayist Idoine Dideon, she couldn’t find it in herself to rush. Perhaps someday she would herself be seated at an escritoire, in hand both a quill and a want to reflect back on these times, and it would be a pity to not recall this very walk, on this very afternoon. For this was her own <em>cwym canol.</em> The day was beautiful in way that only today could be. And the pain, she reminded herself, was today’s beauty. It had to be. Otherwise had it been worth it?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> So she strolled, with purpose but without haste.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The grounds teemed with the usual afternoon activity. Conversations and laughter echoed off the parquet stone floor and tiled walls. To Elaine’s right she saw the cloister open into a quadrangle, and set in its center was a grand common underlied by verdant grass, meticulously maintained and meticulously enjoyed. Though officially, university policy mandated its lawns were to be left unmolested, many of her cohort could be seen reclined on throws that displayed much more whimsy than their more strictly required, morose, black robes. For this was the Academy at Castel Graupian, where edict succumbed to the boundless entropy of youth.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Her eyes fell on a couple lying in each other’s arms, gazing wordlessly at the sky. A half-eaten plate of grapes and Vicovarian Gouda, Elaine could tell, sat neglected to their side. Though the winters were rather temperate and generally benefited from balmy coastal westerlies, if one searched one could find days marked by sunny mornings that hid still, bleak air. On these days, as today was, female students cherished their morose, black robes. And the opportunity to sun themselves, in the arms of their sweethearts, on the beautiful grass in the Imperial Academy Commons. Elaine had known this, and known it with all the intimacy that experience can provide.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She forced her attention towards the couple for as long has her stride allowed her. It would be a pity not to recall today’s beauty.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She passed all who walked without purpose and none who walked with haste, turning down a brickwork causeway lined by benches which were interspersed among a channel of tall cypresses. Her confraters occupying the benches were burrowed deeply in crisp manuscripts and did not see her pass. The term was approaching its close, and <em>tractatus locutus </em>no doubt were being held in just a few minutes in the contiguous auditorium. Of the studious few, should she have cared to observe, there were no couples. But such a care she had left for later. Elaine had departed for more pressing pastures. She had practically begged for admission into his symposium, and had self-respect enough to make good on past debts.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  
</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She sat on the balustrade, though quickly hopped down when she saw that he approached, closing and stashing her issued copy of <em>Monmouth’s Northern Sagas</em>. She hadn’t expected him for a while longer. She straightened her frock, though as with all black frocks, none were the wiser.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Elaine found Casamyr of Brân to be, put simply, exceptional. In the peregrinations of her second year at university, she had landed in a series of survey lectures on Comparative Literature. They fulfilled relevant credit, and her passing interest fulfilled her baseline requirements for choosing classes. The last in the series of erstwhile banal lectures was given by an understudy of one of the foremost authorities in comparative mythology. And in the span of two hours, Elaine was moved incrementally from mildly intrigued to fascinated. Her fascination was only amplified by the snippets she received of the character behind the corpus.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Casamyr, who stood before her, twisting the large skeleton key in a brass lock, was many things to many people. Now though, to her he was her professor. In his peregrinations around the academic circuit, he had landed outside the faculty lounge in the Imperial Academy in Castel Graupian, now awaited by a tall and quite comely young lady named Elaine von Corbenic.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Elaine waited silently and patiently as the oaken door creaked open, assaulting her with the smell of ink and stale vellum. She entered after him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Her professor stood taller than most but shorter than many, and had a physiognomy that suggested quite the opposite of an academic lifestyle, and consequently only supported rumors of allegedly dangerous, extracurricular antics. Even in what she had to guess were his fifties, Casamyr stood erect and broad-shouldered. Waves of hair black as coal fell loosely to his neck, though it was kept from his face by a grey hairband. His features were sharpened, and were liable to pierce if handled carelessly. He always looked cold. Pale and cold.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Elaine shivered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The corner of his lip curled. ’I truly regret that Monmouth is required reading, the old goat. He exists within my syllabus, and thus your minds, on the strength of your faculty board’s insistence alone.’ Casamyr remarked as if the lines had been on his tongue all morning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I’ll remember that.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> In fact she had remembered. With perfect cogency after the fifth time he’d made his sentiments clear regarding his contemporary.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ‘That is not to say his sagas are without merit. Just that the merit is of a derivative sort.’ They strode along a corridor lit only by waxy, stained-glass windows, before turning into an ornately furnished drawing room. ‘It’s an exemplar of exegetical tragedy. A measure we take to appreciate perhaps more … worthwhile renderings. Ones which do not so easily compromise characterizationand essential motifs for horrendous appeals to kitsch. Unforced errors in adaptation cannot be forgiven.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Groups of faculty members and their students spread across the lounge, some situated so close to the center of the large room that the conversations took place by candles or cressets. For the windows, though numerous, opened into a peristyle which saw shade until the mid-afternoon. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A frazzled old man fumed, sustaining persistent, united resistance from five of his students. Elaine could only make out the odd phrase or two: a student had alleged the professor’s inquiry to be tantamount to obsessing over the critical number of fairies which could dance on the head of a pin, to which the professor responded that the student was quite like a fairy himself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Two empty cordovan chairs sat beside a fire whose brick chimney skewered the very center of the room, firelight flickering off their polished leather. How they had remained empty despite the assembly in the lounge, Elaine did not know. It seemed they always found their way to these very chairs and to this very fire, surrounded by the very same conversations.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Before I sit, tea? Coffee?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> She felt the low draught nip at her ankles. The wrought iron windows were cranked open, having fallen for the deception of a warm day. Wood snapped and sizzled in the hearth. Pine, by the smell of its sap.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> The days might have been different, but they always found their way to these chairs and this fire.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Tea, please. If you don’t mind.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘At last.’ A grin pulled along Casamyr’s lips. ’That’s right. Tradition ends only as soon as you decide to escape it.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> Elaine shivered.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  
</p>
<hr/><p class="p6">
  
</p><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> The professor sat reposed in the plush chair, his gaze lost within the burning logs. His features, no less sheer when lit by firelight, were favorable.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Like it or not, Monmouth’s prose has brought us into a new cycle. Vulgate, assuredly, but a cycle nonetheless.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> Elaine’s tea was taking an awfully long time to cool.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I’m further resigned to the prospect that its very being vulgate will propel it to principality.’ He sighed, shifting askew in the chair, ‘And alas, what can one man do against the machinery of fate?’ He turned to her. Despite appearances it seemed it was not rhetorical, and she could sense the sinews of his characteristically circumlocutional dialectic.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘It depends. Is he within myth?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Yes, let’s say.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘A man in myth can do quite a lot.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> Casamyr smiled, warmly. ‘Yes, he can. But can he do enough? Can anybody ever do enough?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> She paused, not following. This feeling was familiar to her though, it was what he wanted. He tried again.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘The heroes of our myth. When it ended, were they able to do enough?’ </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> The firelight brought out a curious hue in his eyes. She had to collect her thoughts.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I … we … don’t know. Or rather, it can be known either way - yes or no. That is the subject of discussion, and analysis.’ She paused, unsure. ‘I also confess I do not know what ‘enough’ is.’ </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> <em>That’s right, I don’t. Was what we had enough? I didn’t think so. And perhaps that was enough.</em></span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Rightly said.’ He nodded and sipped his demitasse of fragrant coffee. ‘But Monmouth engages in discussions and analyses about which there are clear answers. Ones he rarely finds.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> It was becoming of her to at least smile at his humor, so she did. Perhaps if she was truthful with herself, she did enjoy it a little. He pressed on, as always, unworried by whether or not his jokes landed. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ’It is analysis, Elaine. So analyze. Take a stand! I’m curious to know what you think, truly. Was Cirilla, for instance, able to do enough? Her conjuring of Arthac’h Deireadh, the enchanted vessel that bore the Witcher and Sorceress across the strait of Becoming and Unbecoming — a last attempt at delivering them to a final reprieve. Was it enough?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> She brought the tea again to her lips, gingerly. It singed the tip of her tongue, and she reached for the cream that rested on the end table. Casamyr’s tone edged on derisive. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Or as Monmouth infamously puts it, “to affirm and abjure deeds and misdeeds both,” to deposit them in an oblivion devoid of all joy and pain. Ha! What horseshit. Consumed by blame, that man is. What a frail character.’ He shook his head, wood cackling dutifully. ‘I’ve digressed. Forgive me. What do you think? Was it enough?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> By design, his longwinded monologue had allowed Elaine to formulate the bones of a response.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘For the heroes? No, I don’t think so. The myth ends in uncertainty. We never learn where Cirilla brought them. And only certainty is deserving of an “enough,” should one exist. But I think it was very close — they were very close. They had to be, I think.’ She was pleased with her response, and measured his reaction for approval.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> He nodded slowly. ‘Why did it have to be?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Well, perhaps they did find reprieve. They were surely close enough. The myth requiresuncertainty, and it wouldn’t be uncertainty if they weren’t close.’ Elaine looked up from the embers. ‘On either side of it, the story would just be worse.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Ha! Quite right, it would be. It would be indeed.’ Casamyr, it seemed to her, was no different to the rest of academics in one respect: each one secretly wished to be free from complexity.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> The frazzled, old professor had given up, and huffed and puffed his way out into the antechamber, shoes clacking on the stone floor. Elaine saw his students shaking hands and distributing wagers. </span>
</p><p class="p5"><span class="s1"> It was always the same professor and the same students. Even if they were different, they were the same. Always. </span>Turning back, she found Casamyr to be again absorbed in the fire.</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Why ask me these questions? Why lead me this direction?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I want to tell you something,’ he said openly. ‘Or some things. And please forgive me for my circumambulations. I’m not in the habit of disclosing what I’m about to tell you, so the words become unwieldy when held by my tongue.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> She shifted in her chair. ‘Why tell me?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Well primarily, I have a feeling you’ll be very interested.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘And secondarily?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘And secondarily,’ he sighed, his face softened for perhaps the first time Elaine had ever seen, ‘I want somebody to know. Somebody who isn’t my wife or daughter. Within their merits, of which they possess a great many, I do not find a companion for my academic interest in these myths. I am only a man, and what can one man do against the machinery of fate?</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘But why me? There are many others. Your understudies, for instance.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Surprisingly, you were the only one I found myself to be comfortable telling. Is that sufficient?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘No, but I’m not sure it needs to be. Or perhaps it might become so.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘Now if it would please you, I’d like to start. I trust you have an open afternoon?’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I do.’ </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Wonderful,’ he placed his demitasse on the ground beside his chair and folded his hands in his lap. ‘Earlier I asked you if our heroes had done enough, and you responded correctly in the negative. Myths, rightly so and rightly noted, are averse to happy endings.’</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1"> Her tea had fallen to a quite perfect temperature, and the chance addition of cream had been propitious. She found that it balanced the black in the Black Cherry nicely.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘The body of Cirillian legend is not extraordinary in this regard. From our closest accounting of events, though it is heavily disputed, Cirilla disappears with Witcher Geralt and Sorceress Yennefer across a lake in the north, never to be seen again. Fouled not by any archmage, but by an accident and the Witcher’s scruples. A melancholic ending befitting a grand legend.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ’Yes, the myth requires that they fall just short of enough.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Oh but in truth, Elaine, they hadn’t.’ Casamyr’s voice danced about in the firelight, ‘Only myths and legends are averse to happy endings, and as it just so happens, our heroes’ ends were nothing short of a fairy-tale.’</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They were together, she and him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The mosaic of matte green leaves soughed above them in the wind, backlit by a midday sky, enveloping the chirping of birds neither near nor far. Apples hung from laden branches, so numerous in number that they perfumed the air. Soft, thick grass cushioned Geralt's head - he had slept on many pillows that were less forgiving.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A deep pain radiated out from his stomach. There was no doubt his injuries were severe, as the sharp pangs from even the shallowest breaths indicated at the very least a broken rib. The location of the throbbing suggested more concerning damage to his organs. But perplexingly, through the pain he was breathing still - successfully and without the terror of death whose tinge still rested on his lips. He had been afraid, so very afraid. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He felt soft, deliberate fingers on his cheek, tracing familiar lines that could be known only by her. Fingers he knew were working hard to give him something else to focus on besides the ugly pain that consumed his core. At her touch, heartache again cinched in his chest. He loved her so much it was a need, one more powerful than breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It seemed to him that the better half of an hour had passed since he emerged from the fog, but there had been nothing more of worry than mere fleeting glimpses. She had simply left him no room.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Never,’ she gently whispered, her thumb slowly brushing his brow. She took him in completely and exclusively. ‘Never. Tell me that you understand.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I do. I understand.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Tilting his head to the side, he found her violet eyes in his, locked in a calm reverence. Even though at one point he’d had to rest his gaze to stop his vision from swimming, and had straightened his head a few times to relieve his neck, the feeling of her eyes on him had never ceased. She looked at him with abandon, and not once had she looked at anything else.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Smiling still, her eyes moved so intently around his face it was as though she wanted to commit every last detail about him here, speckled light playing across him under a canopy of rustling leaves, to a memory so perfect and timeless that it would serve her in full resolution until the day she parted from the earth. He could not have known that Yennefer was trying to do exactly this, and he could not have known that she would succeed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Some time passed before her eyes returned to his own, stirring memories that reached out from the grey abyss. <em>She was there beside me. In Elm. I know there were others, but I can only see her, kneeling over me. She’s shaking, damp hair stuck to her trembling, contorted face</em>-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Her other fingers, resting by his side and intertwined with his own, forestalled him with a firm squeeze.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ’I was there, yes,’ said Yennefer after a pause, voice quavering. ‘I was there beside you. Just like I am here beside you now. That is all that matters. So don’t trouble yourself with those thoughts, for you’ve thought enough. You’ve thought hard and well for too many, for others, for me. Lie still, my darling, and let me think now for you. About only those things which should be thought.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She fell back into the soothing <em>sotto voce </em>that had chased away all worry, barely above a whisper. He closed his eyes and lied still.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ’I’m right here, beside you,’ her soft, slow words, spoken only to be heard, were carried to him on a gentle breeze of fresh grass, fruit, and dew. Her palm cradled his cheek. ’And I’ll never leave you. Do you believe me? Never.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He believed her. He knew she was right. She had given him no other choice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ’Yes, never. Never will there be a place where you are and I am not. Not ever again. Never.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Never. A word he had heard her say a hundred times, and a word he wished her to say a hundred more. Eyes closed, exhaustion swelled in him like a rising tide. He had trouble remembering the last time he had been this tired. In fact, he had trouble thinking about much of anything at all. The hurried river of his thoughts stilled until its only objects were the slow, sweet whisperings of the woman across from him who was everything.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">He awoke to her. Yennefer clung to his side, head resting on his least injured shoulder where she, too, had fallen asleep. With each breath, the hair strewn across his neck shifted over his skin like dark, unfurled silk, tickling him slightly. The sun hit upon the leaves from an angle much lower in the sky. It felt like hours, for it had been hours.</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Yen?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Mmm…’ the sorceress murmured, lazily adjusting her position against him, ‘…Geralt.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> He ran his fingers through Yennefer’s curls, breathing in the scent of lilac and gooseberry they gave off. She sighed into his chest at the touch. And he winced at the pain in his obliques.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Resting had removed the dull ache that had resounded in his head at the tiniest of movements. If he had even mustered strength enough to move. He had been hollow, empty of substance, and his body leadened. Like a child trying to move marble.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> He told his toes to wiggle, which they did eagerly. His legs, though dried and stiff, shook off rust and shifted, the small movements sending satisfaction racing along his nerves to reward him and remind him he could feel. He was alive. He hadn’t - couldn’t have - accurately inventoried the extent of the damage to his peritoneal cavity, despite the nauseating feeling of numerous bodies inside having become dislodged, as no abdominal movement was possible and his access was blocked by spans of wrapped bandage.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> But he was alive. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> And Yennefer was with him.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘You’re awake,’ she drawled, gazing up at him with wide eyes that shone with warm, violet light. Her smile was slow. On her face was sloth and adoration. ‘You have awoken.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Does my awakening surprise you?’ </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> She tilted her head back down and brushed with her fingertip small, listless circles near his collarbone. ’No. Not exactly.’ She made it around twice, nestling her head even closer to his neck. ‘But I don’t know if its possible for me to again take that for granted. And even if it is …’ she trailed off, lost in thought for a moment. When she returned her voice was strange, ‘No. Such a thing is no longer possible … Va’esse deireádh aep eigean…’ </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> And then Geralt could see her kneeling over him, forms fading and swirling behind her. Panic. Anger. Anguish. He swallowed ineffectually, his throat too dry. ‘Yen, about what happened. I need… I need to tell you—‘</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘No, not now,’ she cut him off gently, but firmly. ‘For I also have things I wish to say to you, many things. But for now, let it suffice that I am in your arms and we have not been parted. And that by some unknown grace I have been given the opportunity to offer redress for my mistakes.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’Out of the question. There’s no need—‘</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’Geralt, there is. Oh, if only you knew how much there is. Perhaps you will. But for now,’ Yennefer touched her lips to the base of his neck and kissed him lightly, so lightly that a tingle spread and ran down his back, ‘for now, save your words and let me be next to you.’ </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> High branches bowed and creaked in the wind, which sent cascading a myriad translucent, saffron shafts that cut through the wooded arcade and danced around them on gently rippling grass. Around them and over them, spreading warmth that was shortly pulled downstream by the swirling breeze. Echoes of birdsong filled the leafy atrium.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Where are we?’ Geralt asked, or rather stated, for the third time. Or was it the fourth?</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I don’t know, darling. But we will find out, you and I. Together.’ She looked up at him, ‘To that end, how long do you say we were asleep? I will need to numb your chest again soon.’ </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> The Witcher again glanced at the fountain of light bleeding through the leaves, ‘Two hours, at least. Probably three.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’Three hours?’ She propped herself on an elbow, ’If you’re in pain you must tell me, Geralt!’ She pleaded, rising to her knees. ‘To think I just was laying there that whole time. Hold on.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Yennefer quickly bent over him, one hand pulling hair behind her ear, the other moving to the linen bandages encircling his abdomen. Her face was dirty and caked with dried blood, and beautiful. It could never be otherwise. Prickling tendrils radiated under his damaged skin.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I didn’t tell you because it’s manageable. Might not have been worth your exertion.’ The pain, which though present he had in fact been able to manage, eased off the hold on his stomach.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> The sorceress shook her head in response. Her hand remained steady, though it was clear her breathing had quickened. The prickling reached deeper, traversing the unfamiliar topography of his organs and cooling the pain that throbbed inside. ‘The spell in its generic form lasts a little over an hour, usually around seventy minutes. It can be strengthened at the cost of energy and time, neither of which I spared or will spare in your case …’ </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Yennefer paused to catch her breath, her brow furrowed. ‘However, even under the most skilled hands, it is only thought possible to add another hour. There’s left an hour window where you were under no analgesic effect, under full force of the injury. I’m surprised you weren’t awoken earlier … There.’ At last she sighed, her hand and body returning to a relaxed position. It was an odd sensation, one he still had to get used to. He understood the pain’s existence, but it wasn’t painful. There was presence, but the affect was cloaked and distanced. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> She searched his eyes, ’How is it now?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’It’s worked very well. Thank you. Almost entirely gone. But truly, I could have managed. Your faculties are more important to preserve than are mine, at the moment.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She stroked his arm, smiling weakly, ’You no longer have permission to make that determination, for in that matter you have proven yourself irreconcilably unskilled. Something we will need to discuss.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Geralt was silent, and merely held Yennefer’s gaze. He breathed deeply. Or as deeply as he could. <em>I will be able to see her eyes again, </em>he thought. <em>Her</em><em> capricious, violet eyes that incite me to her will. I will see them as I awake, like I did just now. Or know that when I come back they will be there, waiting. I have that assurance.</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> I<em> have that assurance.</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Yennefer, slightly flushed, grasped his arm tightly, squeezing it, and slowly lowered her head until her parted lips touched his own. She arose in him all at once, and in her all at once he was overcome. Lipstick and blood pressed by soft lips. Tousled hair that draped around his face, veiling from them all of existence. All but the indefinitely extending touch of soft lips and scent of lilac and gooseberries. And then it was over, all too quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> She reclined next to him again, smiling, and they were quiet. Not out of a drought of words, but because words then would have been both too much and too little. <em>It’s enough that she is here with me. Nothing else matters.</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> The sun, and what they could see of the sky, became golden and thus so too did the leaves cresting the canopy. They were translucent, setting the trees alight with a fragile, evening fire that refracted off the sea of apples brushed pink and red from exposure. Only now was Geralt truly awed at the splendor of the hillside. Lush spreads of grass rolled over hillocks that broke the terrain into small dells. The grove, seen from above as a rippling canvass of leaves and apples, extended down the hillside and into a broad valley, eventually disappearing into a well-defined layer of fog. From what his perspective lent to him, the region appeared to be bounded on all sides by a thin line of sand, flush with the grasses, and on which fell gentle, lazy waves.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> But the principal objects of his awe were the apple trees themselves. They stretched and twined upwards to heights that rivaled even some smaller oaks, creating a vast colonnade of trunks. Thick pillars of aged wood, stalwart under the substantial mass of the branches, fruit, and leaves they supported, stretched in rows far into the distance. Were it not for the overwhelming abundance of their yield, all the fruit would be too high up to reach. Fortuitously though, overladen lower boughs bowed and bent under their own weight, swaying just within reach, almost by design. By size alone he knew the trees must have been close to two centuries old.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> It appeared to Geralt, despite all reason, that they had been deposited into a bygone apple orchard which had long ago aged into a forest. For there was no clutter of underbrush or thicket, just long, spring grass ruffling in the breeze. No two trees were too close together or too far apart. There should have been dozens, but only a few apples had fallen to the roots. Apples which thrushes, routinely flitting to the ground, happily picked apart. Such order and scale Geralt had only known in dreaming, which is why, before the reality of his pain and wounds set in, he had eerily entertained the possibility he had awoken in an afterlife.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> The principal object of his curiosity, however, was found further down and was without a doubt the cynosure of the terrain. At a certain distance and depth into the valley, there emerged from the fog-bank a projection of rock that sloped slowly from the right and ended in a sheer escarpment on the left. Built into the rise and teetering on its edge was an archaic keep of hewn stone, strangled in moss and lichen and far into the process of returning to nature. Obstructed by wisps of mist, the evening sun cast dully on its walls. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> The fog below, as if driven by a steady updraft, slowly swirled and rose around the foot of the outcropping, masking all but the top from view, before dissipating into thinner air. It blanketed the surrounding forest, circling ominously in one direction and with greater intensity the more proximal it became to the hill and keep. Geralt could see no other artifice in view, and thus it had been made their destination by force of simple necessity. He tensed his core, testing his mobility on the assumption movement might be easier while anesthetized. Like the vast majority of assumptions, and unlike the expanse of grove before him, it bore no fruit.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Yennefer had felt his movement, ‘You are uncomfortable? I should move? You’re concerned…you should move-’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘The concern is that I - we -at some point have to move, and I can’t. I can’t sit up, with or without pain, and I don’t know how efficiently I’ll be able to walk. Or if I’m able to walk at all. I have no understanding of the nature or grade of my injuries, other than the obvious rupture of the muscles of my abdominal wall and certain dire memories. I take my continued, miraculous, survival to indicate I’m not currently dying. But how much of that fact is contingent on my idleness, I’m not sure. And I’m afraid to find out.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I’m also afraid, as I’m in the dark about quite a lot, those details included. Though I do know one thing,’ said Yennefer, again pulling herself up to meet his gaze, ‘You’re stable. Please do not worry. As you correctly surmised, you don’t need immediate intervention, and are not at risk of arriving at such a need through movement of any kind, if you’re capable of it. You will live, so long as there is food and water for you.’ </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> She looked away, over the swaying grasses. ‘I made her promise me that. Before she left.’ She spoke to the herself and the horizon. ‘She could go, but she would make me that promise.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Geralt knew her enough not to ask why Ciri had any license to make such a promise, and how Yennefer knew it would be kept. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> She accepted the silence, staring passively for a time at the abyss between worlds.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Well,’ she faced him. He pretended not to notice the mist that had arisen in her eyes. ‘We wouldn’t be resting here otherwise. You’d be <em>in stasis stetit </em>on my best attempt at a travois, and we’d be somewhere off towards that castle. And yet, here we are.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Here we are.’ Her hand fit perfectly within his own.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Perhaps, though,’ said Yennefer, resting a hand on his shoulder ‘it would be prudent to delay our attempt at a journey just a moment longer. For it’s own sake. Lie still.’ With some effort, she rose to her feet and approached a low-hanging branch that looked mere ounces away from snapping under its own weight. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Her crêpe dress and bodice had been elegant some hours ago, he gathered, and uncharacteristically for Yennefer were seemingly chosen for their conspicuous flattering of her figure. The slit that ended just above her left knee had been garishly widened, a strip flapped as she walked. Dried rivulets of crimson blood stained her neck and chest, ruddying the black lace of her bodice that clung so enticingly to the front of her torso. It only appeared too tight to be comfortable. She moved with the ease afforded by an enviously slim figure.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘How is your appetite, darling?’ Yennefer reached up towards the apples and picked three, something by which the branch was doubtlessly overjoyed. ‘Would I do you harm by asking you to have a bite? You should try and eat, if you’re at all able. I can’t imagine your glucose levels are in good standing considering your … the blood you’ve lost.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Geralt struggled to remain present. But he was experienced, and did not fail. He focused on her. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> She misinterpreted the hesitation, ‘At least try for me. Have pity on my peace of mind.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> He would try for her, though he was not particularly confident he had an enclosed stomach in which to deposit the bite of apple.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Yennefer saw him labor to lift his neck, and immediately moved to assist him. ‘Here, lift your head.’ Her hands gently raised the Witcher’s shoulders and upper-torso and rested his head on her lap. He had slept on many pillows that were less forgiving.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> The apple was wonderful, and wholly as prodigious as the landscape that produced it. It cleaved crisply and easily, and was perfectly ripe. Cool, sweet juice washed over his parched tongue, and he swallowed eagerly. It awoke in him the guttural compulsion of hunger and it took all he had not to devour the apple in large, hacking bites. Yennefer did not perform much better. He had never seen an apple vanish so quickly and yet with such poise and decorum.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Where are we, Geralt?’ She said. ‘Have you ever tasted apples like this?’ </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> He hadn’t. He was certain even Dandelion, notorious for keeping a gustatory catalogue of unparalleled foods and meals, would admit these apples would be first in their category therein. Where was Dandelion? Where were they?</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Can you explain it to me again? I’m not sure I understand.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Of course,’ her fingers pulled soothingly through his hair. ‘Once more and then we shall see how we fare down this hill. Have another bite, darling, before I steal it from you and eat it myself. Good.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Yennefer sighed, ’I do not have access to most teleportational magic. It’s as if it never existed, like a sense that has been torn from me. I will my hand to reach out but it doesn’t, for I no longer have a hand.’ She looked away, ’I tried all that I can, every way that I know to amplify or ground teleportation. Our clothes, your sword, which normally would be powerful anchors, are simply inert. Everything is in vain. Teleportation, to all locations I know, is not possible where we are. I’ve never felt anything like it before.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’So then how are we to assume we arrived? And how could Ciri have gone away?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘The Elder Blood,’ she began, speaking to herself as much as Geralt, ‘grants Ciri extraordinary control over time and space. She does not know the same limitations that I do. It is even possible that she transversed between realities. Realities of the type that converged and diverged during the Conjunction. These are means few possess.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’What is different between different realities? How are they different if Ciri can access them? How far away can she be?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I’m not sure. You have entered a realm of questioning wherein not many have answers. Magical inquiry has its limits, and as has become apparent, I do as well.’ She gazed down at him softly, ‘All I can offer are my best estimations, guesses. I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Geralt rocked his head side to side in her lap and hoped he didn’t look too funny.’Now is no time for apologies, as you said yourself. Especially when there is no fault. No, don’t respond. And Ciri didn’t say anything before she left? She gave no information?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’None.’ Dark curls brushed his brow as she shook her head. ‘Nothing other than that which I demanded. I don’t think I was in a position to ask more of her. And even had I been, I was preoccupied with more concerning circumstances.’ He felt her hand attempt an inconspicuous squeeze of his shoulder, and then his upper-arm.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’Why here, of all places? There's surely a reason.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Surely. One we don’t know. But we’ll find out together,’ she said, meeting his gaze. ‘I am certain we will.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Geralt recalled it easily; her head low against Kelpie’s neck, galloping off towards Vengerberg. It had been a goodbye only in name.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘She didn’t say anything else? Nothing at all?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘No,’ her response was hollow, ‘She left very quickly. She had to go.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> He stared blankly ahead at what happened to be a massive tree trunk. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’She had to go.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Greenfinches and thrushes sang, flitting from branch to branch, tree to tree. Geralt forced himself to quietly track their flight as Yennefer ran her fingers through his hair. He had not been able to locate the swallow, whose chittering seemed to reach out to him from deep inside the grove.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> He started hesitantly, ‘In your estimation, is it possible our world no longer exists to us, where we are?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’Yes, it is. But I cannot bring myself to care. Nor do I want to.’ She spoke from a distant place. ‘If it were true, would it be important to you?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ’No. Not at all.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> She faced him.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Something has ended in me, Geralt.’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> The sun caught around the edges of Yennefer’s hair in a halo woven of spun gold. It crowned her, yielding to a sea of black waves that crested and broke languidly onto her shoulders. Her eyes were searching for him, looking desperately, achingly for him.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> He nodded, to show he understood, and held her within his gaze for some time. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">‘Is something beginning?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> ‘Yes,’ replied Yennefer, quietly and not right away, ‘Yes, I think so.’</span>
</p><p class="p4">
  
</p><hr/><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">‘<em>…And when they were there, even fast by the bank moved a little barge with many fair ladies in it. And among them all was a queen. And all they had black hoods, and all they wept and shrieked when they saw King Arthur.’</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"><em> -</em> Le Morte d’Arthur</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'm in deliberation as to the length of chapters. 'long chapter' approach (~10k words) lends itself to the integrity of the work, yet shorter ones like this (~3k words) can be pushed out more routinely. content would be the same both ways, just would be broken up in different places.</p><p>if any readers have strong preferences, i'd love to know of them. </p><p>thanks for reading :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>unpolished first half of chapter 2 that has been collecting dust on my laptop for a month. senseless for it to be shuttered away for no reason</p><p>might try and start up the writing engine again, but no promises (i'm sorry and wish promises were on the table :( , but grad school starts for me in a week). so might i return to make edits to this first half, as it's funny what two months' time can do to your perception of your own writing.</p><p>at the very least i suppose i'll finish this second chapter</p><p>stay safe</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">‘I can keep going,’ urged Yennefer, panting, ‘just … if you take larger steps…’</p><p class="p1">He shuffled his feet forward as best he could, leaning heavily on the sorceress’ diminutive frame. The Witcher felt her legs tremble as they struggled to find enough leverage against his bulk to merely hold them upright. Progressing forward had become a luxury.</p><p class="p1">‘Yen, we should stop. Set me down before we both collapse-‘</p><p class="p1">‘No, I can hold you … just try and take larger steps,’ She shifted his slipping body back into position, only for him to begin slipping again, and cast an exasperated glance at his feet, ‘dammit … here, loop your arm around and grab hold… ’ He felt her small hand try and tug his shirtsleeve and arm further down over her shoulder.</p><p class="p1">‘You must … take up your requests with my abdominal muscles, for I am upholding my end of the bargain.’ The whole of Geralt’s core felt like lifeless jelly. His legs coiled and unfurled easily, but only to a regressed position at the back of his stride. His toes pushed off in a controlled drag through the grass. ‘I’m doing what I can…’ He shoved off as Yennefer again heaved him forward. She stood shakily, breath ragged. “And you’re doing more than you can. Yen, don’t hurt yourself unnecessarily. Let’s-‘</p><p class="p1">He didn’t finish, because he began to fall. Yennefer gasped and sank with force to the ground, knees finally buckling. Using what leverage he had to avoid landing squarely on her, he twisted to his side and crumpled to lessen the impact. He was very appreciative he had been numbed, though all things considered, the grass was quite soft. His sihil thudded into the turf.</p><p class="p1">She groaned quietly into the ground in either pain or dissatisfaction, Geralt couldn’t discern which -which he knew meant it was both. ‘Are you alright?’ She managed through empty breaths, hand blindly feeling around the grass for some part of him as she rolled onto her back, ‘I’m sorry … I thought I could make it, we were so close. Are you hurt?’</p><p class="p1">’No,’ he said, elevating and flexing his knee to discern any change in function, ‘though I wouldn’t feel it if I were. Your spell is a stronger anesthetic than some of my decocts.’</p><p class="p1">Yennefer did not rise from her back, and instead became quiet.</p><p class="p1">He pushed himself onto his side, and looked past her and out to the beach, where the ledge of grass dropped off into sand, ashen in the evening light. Her profile broke the surface of rosy waters, sparkling under a sky burnt in sunset. Caught by the breeze, her hair drifted lightly over her chest.</p><p class="p1">‘What troubles you?’</p><p class="p1">Her face remained placid, staring up at the dying sky. ‘Only small things,’ she replied pensively, still catching her breath, ‘And they’re happy troubles. Nothing worthy of speech.’ Gulls cawed, alighting in the slow waters of the lake, for Geralt knew it had to be a lake. Only the wind could routinely produce waves of such low energy. More finally though, there was the obvious lack of thick, briny air that would have greeted them many minutes ago. For only an indistinct floral scent now accompanied the fruited air.</p><p class="p1">‘Well, here again we lie, Witcher mine,’ Yennefer mused, reflection passing, ‘no longer at the top of the hill but the bottom.’</p><p class="p1">He chuckled, ‘Do you suppose it would have been more economical for us to have rolled down?’</p><p class="p1">‘Economical is open for debate. But quicker undoubtedly,’ she shifted to face him. ‘There’s still some distance to the beach, I could test your theory.’</p><p class="p1">‘You forget yourself, Yennefer. The image of a rolling sorceress is not so easily misplaced. Who knows how often it may slip out accidentally in conversation, and to whom it might find its way.’</p><p class="p1">Her lips twitched unwittingly in a triumphant smirk, ’I forget nothing.’ She threw her legs over him quickly, resting him onto his back and straddling his hips. ‘And you forget that at the moment you’re especially vulnerable to inopportune pushes and shoves.’</p><p class="p1">‘You wouldn’t dare.’</p><p class="p1">Yennefer’s smirk softened, tilting her head slightly, ‘No. You’re right,’ she sighed, ‘I wouldn’t.’ By reflex, his hands were called to her thighs. Out of practical considerations for their venture down, the sorceress had shorn off most all the fabric of her dress so that it better resembled a functionally short skirt. And so, thankfully, his hands pressed into the cool contours of her pale skin. Her hands came to rest on his. ‘Geralt, I-‘</p><p class="p1">‘Shh-‘ he hissed quietly.</p><p class="p1">Yennefer froze. Her eyes locked to his. ‘How close?’ She whispered.</p><p class="p1">Arising in the periphery of his senses, Geralt had picked up something distinct from the breathing of the forest. Something that sounded just like many dampened footfalls, only slightly out of sync. Synchronization meant preparation, and preparation foreboded.</p><p class="p1">‘Not far. Fifteen seconds.’ Grasping the hilt of his sihil, he drew it deftly and noiselessly from its scabbard, and rested it in the shadow of his leg. ‘Prop me up against the tree. Quickly.’ In an instant she was behind him, dragging his shoulders up the uneven trunk. Bracing his position with the leg that hid the sihil, he bent the other in hope of evoking a man at leisure. He knew his bandages and bloodied garb would tell a different story up close, but first impressions mattered.</p><p class="p1">‘How many?’</p><p class="p1">‘More than one,’ he replied, cinching the bandage around his waist. Looking up, Yen was still kneeling beside him. ‘Get behind a tree!’</p><p class="p1">‘No. I’m staying here.’</p><p class="p1">Geralt tensed his leg. On a good thrust, he’d have about a five foot working radius from which to strike. Hardly sufficient.</p><p class="p1">‘Yen, if things go south, don’t wait-</p><p class="p1">‘You will not come into harm again.’ She interrupted, her whisper electric and final. Standing, she gazed eastward into the apple forest. ‘Ah. They approach.’</p><p class="p1">From over a dell emerged three figures, each clad in a black gown and cowl. In the front and middle walked a figure half a head taller than the other two. They walked slowly, and nothing could be seen of what lay shrouded in darkness underneath their long hoods.</p><p class="p1">Looking briefly first to to him, Yennefer turned and spoke icily through the glade, ‘It would be to your benefit that you disclose your names and purpose, friends. Before you further your approach.’</p><p class="p1">The company halted, not more than 20 yards away.</p><p class="p1">After a breath, a female voice returned, lilted in an unusual manner and stumbling. ‘Purpoes an … namae? Forgefe me, thou spaken … al plaine not, an in … a maner to me incustumed,’ the tallest, who Geralt presumed must have been the speaker, turned towards one of her cohort. ‘Nynyue?’</p><p class="p1">A second figure, by far the shortest of the group, nodded, stepped forward, and cast back her hood. Her face was fair and beheld them silently for a moment’s time.</p><p class="p1">‘Fear not, Yennefer of Vengerberg,’ her speech carried slowly and calmly, like a stream over smooth stones. ‘For now are you beyond your times of hardship. You have left great suffering in coming here, but know that you have seen its end. Take heart, O, Sorceress of the Hill.’</p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p>
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